


Perfect

by NewWonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:59:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John could do better than Sherlock; he really could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

John is wearing one of his ridiculous sweaters, cradling a mug in his palms, pretending to look in the window even when Sherlock knows all he's been looking at is him. He knows, he always does, and John knows that he knows, and yet he still stubbornly faces the dirty window with dirty sky behind it, looking at Sherlock only when he's at least a bit sure Sherlock doesn't notice. Gazing, taking in all of him - the face (still the same, admittedly), the hair (same length, same colour), the hands, the movements of his fingers (one or two new patterns, but other than that - still the same), the neck (what's there to observe, really?)

So stubborn, his John. So often giving in - and yet never yielding, always standing his ground. Sherlock is vaguely aware that some of his demands might have been a bit of an assault on his friend's dignity, but John has so much of it - no matter what happens to him, he will always stand noble, firm and unchanging. Fiercely loyal, Sherlock knows, would have never believed that but with all the proof there was no other choice but believe; kind in ways society wouldn't always deem acceptable. He shot a man for Sherlock, laughed at it with Sherlock, and yet there is so much kindness in him, soft and velvety, like the worn sheath of a steel blade. Hidden, inconspicuous, oh, you would even notice until stabbed - but no less deadly. His to use, his to hold close to the body and plunge into one's gut.

Truly a marvel, his John. So pedestrian and yet so unusual, so rare - unique. Unfazed by murder and Mycroft, than utterly brought down by a small jump off the roof; always eager for soft, for beautiful and fragile, and yet embracing danger as the only woman to have real power over him; aloof to all the nice people out there but so loyal to a man who made him run errands. Loyalty at first sight, was it? Oh, but then what Sherlock felt when he first laid eyes upon his doctor - was that ownership at first sight, or was it?

But now, they stand equal.

John is strong, he knows John is strong, but right now he seems so small and fragile - so easy to shatter. Sherlock has to hold down the temptation for a bit, even though he knows that, while he could always outsmart his idiot of a doctor, in a hand-to-hand combat John was more likely to win, despite his small frame and harmless looks. There's no equality at all - in brains, in looks, in battle skills even, they are as different as ying and yang, and that's why they're equal, still. John never even thinks about it, it seems, and Sherlock pretends not to know, but it was John Sherlock walked off the roof for, just like it was Sherlock John has embraced death at the pool for. Equal. That's... disconcerting. Sherlock does not do equal with the likes of him, never did. But John is an exception, just like in everything else.

John could do better than him, he could. Sherlock has the look on his face, the jerky movements of his palms when he wiped his wet eyes on the cemetery, his thunderstruck stare when he came back memorized, catalogued, filed and archived, forever and ever inside his brain. That hurts, even though it shouldn't; Sherlock sometimes pulls the files out and riffles through them. Were these visions real, in paper and dye, they would probably burn his fingers.

John could do so much better, he thinks, - find someone kinder, softer, more human. Somebody who could actually love him. Sherlock recollects the memory of John, scared to death in a locked lab, and ponders idly if there was any other way. He knows there wasn't, not really, and he doesn't regret that, not one bit. That was efficient and convenient, and John wasn't in any real danger. If there was some kind of danger, though, Sherlock would have pondered plenty before exposing him to it.

Probably still would, as long as he was sure he could get John to safety in time.

John could do better than Sherlock; he really could. Only not: they match and they fit, one broken, damaged John and one deficient Sherlock, they click and they work like a watch mechanism - perfectly tuned in harmonious correlation, joined with all the little cogs of their edgy personalities. Not smooth, never smooth, because John doesn't really want smooth and neither does he. John wants Sherlock - anything but perfect, anything but soft. There are people better than him, Sherlock supposes, but John wants him, out of them all. Needs Sherlock, always will, because that's how he is, because this one imperfect Sherlock Holmes is perfect for him to follow, to admire and love. And Sherlock will have him, because no-one else will do.

John could never do better, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my first language, so apologies for the (probably numerous) mistakes. Feel free to point them out (in fact, I will love you if you do!)
> 
> Oh, and this might turn into a series of very short, very pointless vignettes. Or not.


End file.
